The Disappeared

by Ali Harper

  ‘He talked to Wilkins’s neighbour – there’d been a bonfire. The day she disappeared. Tom took a look around. Found a fire pit at the bottom of the garden.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Soon after she’d disappeared.’

  ‘And he found her diary in the fire pit?’

  He nodded. ‘Well, he found a scrap of paper no bigger than fifteen centimetres square.’

  ‘He told the police?’

  ‘They made out three words.’ He paused, let the tension build.

  ‘Let me guess.’ I leaned closer to him, dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘Nick killed me.’

  Martin had the good grace to smile, even though I could tell he was annoyed. He shook his head. ‘“Friends take me”.’

  ‘Friends take me? What does that mean?’

  ‘No idea, but they proved it was her handwriting. Why would you burn a person’s diary unless you had something to hide?’

  ‘Maybe she burned the diaries?’

  ‘The neighbour said it was definitely Nick having the bonfire.’

  Jo came back to the table and passed my phone back to me. ‘Did I miss anything?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. I turned back to Martin. ‘How come the police didn’t arrest him?’

  ‘Tom, Jayne’s brother,’ he added for Jo’s benefit, ‘believed Nick had bought them off, or put the frighteners on them. Something. He’s a big fish in a small pond. Thinks he’s Al Capone.’

  I thought back to the Mr Wilkins I’d met. The look in his eyes when I’d mentioned Jack.

  ‘They’re all the same,’ said Martin. ‘They’re the ones who’ve destroyed this country, turned greed into a virtue.’

  ‘Any idea where Karen Carpenter is now? Or any of the other women?’ I tried to bring the conversation back to the point. Inside I was thinking that maybe they’d be willing to speak to us now. Surely they didn’t still live in fear of Nick Wilkins?

  Martin Blink ducked down and picked up his briefcase, a battered leather affair. He pulled out a notebook, a black, leather-bound book with an elastic band round its centre. On the front was a rectangular sticker. On that was written:

  ‘Jayne Wilkins. Disappeared: 8/9/00’

  My heart thumped out an extra beat. ‘You’ve still got your notes?’

  ‘Every case I ever worked. All at home.’ He raised his eyebrows at me, like I’d made a comment, challenged him in some way. ‘Wasn’t going to leave them at work. They’re my notes.’

  He turned over the front cover, cast his eyes down the first page. I strained to read his writing upside down, but when he caught what I was doing, he pulled the notebook closer to his chest. ‘Didn’t give me a backwards glance. Day I turned 65, it was: thank you and goodnight. Management tools, think they know it all. Don’t know how to wipe their own backsides, half of them. Wouldn’t know investigative journalism if it jumped up and bit them on the—’

  ‘Can I see?’ asked Jo.

  He held the notebook against his chest and took a slug of tea. He stared at me, and I didn’t flinch. Stared at him right back. ‘I’ll do you a deal,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of deal?’ Jo narrowed her eyes.

  ‘I give you my information, you give me yours. First dibs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I get the story. Before anyone else.’

  ‘Thought you’d retired,’ said Jo.

  I hesitated. Thought of Col. We’d promised him almost the exact same thing. ‘We can’t promise that.’

  ‘Come on, who else you going to tell?’

  ‘The police?’ I tried to make it sound theoretical rather than a prearranged contract.

  ‘Rubbish. They weren’t that interested at the time, they’re hardly likely to be interested seventeen years later.’

  ‘They might be if Jack doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘Police aren’t interested in young men who’ve taken off. Unless there’s evidence a crime’s been committed.’ His voice rose at the end of the sentence, like he was asking a question.

  I shook my head.

  The waitress meandered over and cleared our plates away. We all watched her cross the room back to the counter. I don’t know whether she sensed our attention because she turned and said: ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Another cup of tea would be nice,’ said Jo. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All right,’ said Martin, leaning across the table, ‘first dibs on the story, unless the police show up demanding answers.’

  Jo and I met eyes across the table. Jo stuck out her bottom lip, gently shaking her head from side to side. ‘We could live with that,’ she said, and I found myself nodding in agreement.

  I reached over for the notebook, but he clutched it tighter to his chest. ‘I want to be kept in the loop.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Any developments, no matter how small.’

  ‘We’re not going to ring you every five minutes,’ said Jo.

  ‘Twice a day. Morning and evening. Give me an update. And if anything major happens.’

  I shrugged. ‘All right. Hand it over.’

  He hesitated, looked me in the eyes and I knew he was working out whether he could trust me. I was struck by the eagerness in his eyes, how much he clearly wanted to be a part of this.

  ‘Scouts honour,’ I said, tapping two fingers to my forehead.

  He released his grip on the notebook, and Jo took it off him. I watched her nod her head, impressed.

  ‘This is great,’ she said. She passed the notebook across the table to me. ‘I’m going for a piss,’ she said, pulling herself up from the table. She made her way to the back of the room.

  ‘Ladylike, your mate,’ said Martin.

  I grinned. ‘Ladylike don’t get the job done.’

  ‘A woman after my own heart.’

  ‘You married?’ I asked Martin.

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Me? No. I’m just your regular standard hack cliché. Thought kids’d cramp my style. Hah. That’s probably why the wife left. Didn’t even care at the time. Thought it was less complicated. You don’t think you’re going to get old. Or lonely.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ I said in what I hoped was an encouraging voice.

  ‘You know what, lassie? That’s another lie. That’s a lie they tell you to keep your nose glued to the grindstone. So that you don’t notice that your life is passing by, and that you’ll never get it back.’

  I pulled my tobacco packet from my pocket and rolled myself a fag. I noticed him staring so I offered it to him. He shook his head.

  ‘Gave up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Nineteen days.’ He popped another Fisherman’s Friend and crunched it. ‘Bloody killing me.’

  I slipped the packet of tobacco and the roll-up back into my pocket.

  ‘Mind you don’t just think about business,’ said Martin.

  ‘Business is the wrong word. It’s a mission.’ I grinned to take the intensity out of my words, even though I meant every one of them.

  ‘What about the other?’

  I frowned, not following him.

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I shook my head. I glanced over at the young couple who were holding each other’s hands across their table. ‘Not interested.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  I pulled a face.

  ‘Well, take my advice, while you’re young, and good-looking, find yourself a bloke. Make sure you treat him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Because one day you’re going to wake up old, and being old and alone is the worst thing ever.’

  I shrugged and put my feet up on the seat Jo had vacated. ‘Who knows how the cookie’s going to crumble?’ I said. ‘People spend forty years putting up with each other’s bad habits, then one of them drops dead of a heart attack. You’re still alone.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No guarantees, whichever path you choose. Maybe it’s about learning to live with solit
ude.’

  He brushed the crumbs off his jacket lapels and shook his head. ‘It’s called stacking the odds. If I’d had kids, I might have grandchildren now. Could have four or five of the buggers running around the place.’

  ‘Or they might have emigrated to Australia.’

  He gripped my arm across the table. ‘I focused on myself. My career. Me, me, me. Thought the job was enough, thought it would last forever. Conned into believing my own bullshit. We all need someone. Even if it’s just someone to argue with over which TV channel to watch.’

  Jo came back to the table, adjusting the waistband on her miniskirt, which she wore over the top of a pair of red-and-black striped leggings.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘They’re all crap.’

  Martin pointed a bony finger at me. He looked like he was about to say something more but then his shoulders shrugged, and he closed his eyes as he downed the rest of his coffee.

  Jo slipped back into the seat next to me, pushing my feet to the floor. ‘Anyone else we should talk to?’

  Martin called over to the woman at the counter for a glass of water. He waited till she’d brought it to our table and took a sip, before replying to Jo’s question. When he next spoke, it was like he’d slipped back into his journalist role. Clipped and professional.

  ‘There’s nothing like the feeling,’ he said, and you could see it in his eyes. ‘When you’re on to something. The best drug.’

  I looked at Jo and we both grinned. Happiness bloomed inside of me and I had this flash of feeling, this knowing, for the first time in my life. I knew I was lucky. Doing the thing I loved doing most, with my best mate, who was the best mate in the world.

  ‘I hope you crack this one. I’d like to see Nick Wilkins get what’s coming to him. ’Bout time someone brought him to book.’

  We left Martin Blink in the café and went back out onto the street. The clouds had dissipated, and the afternoon felt warm. Spring was coming, and it made me want to find a pub and sit outside drinking pints of lager top. I gripped my thumbs tight in my palms.

  ‘Boy, have we got leads,’ said Jo. She surveyed the street and nodded her head approvingly, her lips pursed. ‘We’re investigators on the trail of a murderer and we have leads. How good is that?’

  I tried to wipe the picture of floating Martha from my mind. ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Col.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not much. They’re waiting on the autopsy. It’s being rushed through, apparently.’

  ‘Did you tell him about Wilkins?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re right – having a fascist pig for a client is useful.’

  I pulled a face at her, and she gave me a grin to take the sting out of her words.

  ‘He’s going to try and find out what the original investigative team thought – if they’re still around. We’re getting close, I can feel it.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. What next?’

  ‘See if we can find the women he was having affairs with? They might be willing to talk after all this time.’

  ‘It’s a bit …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dunno – clichéd. Don’t you think?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Cut-throat businessman, having affair with not one but several blonde bimbos, kills devoted wife and mother …’

  ‘We don’t know they’re blonde. Or bimbos.’

  ‘Still …’

  ‘Yeah, well clichés come about for a reason,’ said Jo. She linked arms with me, and we set off in the warm sunshine towards the van. ‘Because that shit happens a lot.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I read Martin’s notebook aloud to Jo as she drove us back to Leeds. It contained the names of three possible women Wilkins might have been involved with. Blink had spoken to one of them, the one he’d mentioned in the café – Karen Carpenter. She’d denied it, according to his scribbled notes. Claimed they were just friends and that Wilkins had confided in her about his wife being troubled. The second woman, Alison Williams, had refused to speak to him and the third, known only as Sue, he hadn’t managed to find.

  We were back in Leeds by teatime. As we drove back through the city centre we passed The Warehouse, and I caught sight of Bill, standing on the pavement, talking to the driver of a truck piled high with beer barrels.

  ‘Pull over,’ I said to Jo. ‘Let’s see if Carly’s in tonight. I want to ask her more about the car crash – find out where Jack got that idea from.’

  Bill didn’t look that pleased to see me.

  ‘Is Carly around?’ I asked.

  ‘Carly hasn’t been around since the last time you were here.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ He waved a hand as the truck pulled away from the kerbside. ‘And no talking to anyone else. I can’t afford to lose any more staff.’

  I jumped back in the van and slammed the door closed. ‘We’re losing more people than we’re finding.’

  ‘Not really.’ Jo started the engine. ‘Who’ve we lost so far?’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘He was already missing.’

  ‘Our first client.’

  ‘Megan? She’s not missing. She’s dead.’

  ‘So we lost her big time.’

  ‘Not our fault.’

  ‘Brownie.’

  ‘We found him,’ said Jo, frowning at me as she made her way up the hill towards Woodhouse Street. ‘That’s the opposite of losing someone.’

  I made a mental note to give Aunt Edie a call, make sure he was still there. ‘Bill said Carly’s not been in since we were last here.’

  ‘Maybe she’s gone to see her folks.’

  ‘Without telling work?’

  ‘I need to go home and get Tampax,’ said Jo.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then let’s go to the office and do a review of everything we’ve got so far. You can do one of your wall charts.’

  I cheered up a bit at that. Jo was right, a wall chart was just what we needed. She drove back up to Hyde Park Road and I sat outside in the van while Jo ran into the house. I closed my eyes. Switch off the brain. I am above thought. I am the watcher of my thoughts. It’s in the moments when the brain is quiet that deep realization occurs. Almost impossible to achieve when squashed in a Vauxhall Combo on Hyde Park Road, but I crossed my legs on the seat, breathed from my belly and tried to still my mind. We live in our brains when really they are just another organ of the body, like the liver. Switching off the mind means being in the body.

  I was pulled out of my non-thoughts by a knock on the window.

  I opened my eyes. Shut them again. Opened them. Wished I hadn’t. Wished I could erase the scene in front of me. I froze.

  The man stood on the pavement to my left, his collar turned up, making a winding motion with his fingers. I can’t remember how long it took me to realize he was telling me to put the window down, but it was probably minutes. I fixed my gaze forward, stared out of the windscreen, like I could imagine myself out of there. Teleported. Anywhere but there. He opened the passenger door, and I half-fell out of the van and onto the pavement at his feet.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  I straightened myself up. Didn’t know whether to stand, or stay seated, so I chose a kind of in-between option where I was half-crouched by the side of the van. I put a hand on the doorframe to steady myself.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said.

  I glanced along the street half expecting to see a horde of police officers bearing down. For the first time in living memory, there wasn’t a single person in sight. Where the fuck was everyone? The nuclear holocaust had happened without my knowledge.

  ‘Aren’t they looking for you?’ I said.

  He held out his hand and, for some reason I will never be able to understand, I took it and allowed him to pull me up from my crouch, so that I was upright in front of him. For one awful, bone-melting moment I thought he was going
to hug me. He stared at me like I might have grown horns in the years since I’d seen him. How many years? Only three. Lifetimes.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ he said.

  Jo. I needed Jo. I looked up at the house, at our first- and second-floor flat windows, mentally screaming for her to come down, come out, to save me.

  ‘There’s a café round the corner,’ he said.

  The thing I love most about living on Hyde Park Road is the fact that there’s a park on the other side of the street. When I’m in my bedroom, up in the attic, all I see is trees. I thought about running, but my legs didn’t work.

  His hand hot on my elbow. The next thing I remember we were sitting in the small Turkish café next door to the Asian supermarket. I have no idea how we got there. It freaks me out now, thinking about the blank spots. I’ve got flashes of memory – like postcards. Sitting at the table with a cup of mint tea in front of me. His hollowed-out cheeks. The flock wallpaper. I remember I asked him: ‘How did you get out?’

  I remember that because I had pictures in my head of the poster in Shawshank Redemption, whatshisface in Escape from Alcatraz, the army guys with the tunnel in the black-and-white concentration camp film.

  He shook his head, like he could see what I saw, and he said: ‘I was released.’

  I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see the eyes that are the exact same muddy green as mine.

  ‘You can’t have. I mean, that’s not fair.’

  He closed his eyes, and I wished he would stay that way. So I could stare at him without being seen. So I could spend some time assessing, to take in the paleness of his skin, the shadow of his stubble, the heaviness in his forehead. But he opened them again, and I had to look away.

  ‘I’ll never finish paying for what I did,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t.’ I took a sip of tea and a layer off the skin on the roof of my mouth at the same time.

  ‘No one knows more—’

  ‘I said don’t.’

  He stopped talking, and I became aware of a table of students at the front of the café, laughing. I had to fight the urge to fling my cup of tea over their heads.

  ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Fine.’

  We both knew I was lying. In that moment I realized I was so far from fine – everything was, had been, a sham, a pretence. I’d thought I was coping, when actually coping was the furthest thing from me. I was out of coping’s reach, miles out, adrift, alone, lost, at sea.